


You Complete My Heartbeat, Still

by AgentBuzzkill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunions, all of the feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 16:18:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentBuzzkill/pseuds/AgentBuzzkill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a long year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Complete My Heartbeat, Still

**Author's Note:**

> In honor of the one-year anniversary of Reichenbach. It still hurts. Luckily this doesn't hurt for long.
> 
> Title from "Hear Me Out" by Mayday Parade.

“It’s been a year.”

A man stands at a grave. The sun shines down, white clouds drift along in the rare blue London skies. The man seems to steel himself, schools his expression, and continues.

“It’s been a year, and it still...hurts. It shouldn't hurt, should it?” He laughs, but there’s no humour in it. “You know, sometimes I wonder what you’d do if you were here. I bet you’d call me an idiot. Say it was my stupid human sentimentality. But you were human, too. At least to me.”

The man says nothing for a long time, just standing there. Slowly, his face twists. I looks like something inside of him breaks, and he curls up right there, hands fisting in his sandy-blond hair. Wrapped around himself, a picture of grief and unimaginable heartache, he cries out:

“God, Sherlock, what do I even say? I've said it all before. If you can even hear me, you know I have. I miss you. I miss you, okay!? I miss you playing the violin at three in the morning. I miss trying to make you eat when you’re wrapped up in a case. I miss being your blogger, running through the streets of London with you. I...Sherlock, I...”

He cannot speak. Instead, he drops to his knees, one hand coming out to support him as he shakes with the force of his sobs. It goes on for a while, until he gradually quiets. Still sniffling, rubbing at his wet eyes, he sits up on his knees. 

“I loved you, you know?” He thinks for a moment and corrects himself. “Love you. And I know that will never fade.”

He looks up then, at the sky, and shields the sun from his eyes with a hand. Squinting up at the clouds, he chuckles again. 

“I’m leaving Baker Street,” he croaks out. “I suppose it is time. I’m leaving some money behind for Mrs. Hudson. A few months more of rent. Money that seems to be magically appearing in my bank account.” He glances down at the headstone. “I suppose that’s your brother’s work. You’d think after a year he would leave me alone.” 

He looks down, at his hands that now rest in his lap. He seems to be out of things to say. 

“This might be the last time I’m here for...a long time. I don’t know if I’ll ever come back to London.” He reaches out, traces the letters on the headstone with fingers that tremble slightly. 

“So I suppose I just wanted to say that it’s been a year. I still miss you. I always will.” 

He stands then, slowly, wincing and clutching at his leg for a moment. He turns to go, then reconsiders and turns back to the grave.

“I guess it’s too late to ask for that miracle again, huh?” He steps forward and touches the headstone again.

“Goodbye, Sherlock.”

At that same moment, a cab arrives at 221 Baker Street and a tall, thin man steps out. He runs white, slender fingers through his dark hair, pushing it out of his eyes. He hurries to the door, knocks impatiently, and waits for an old woman to answer the door. 

After the woman gives him one of the hardest slaps to the face he has ever received, proceeds to hug him for a straight minute and fifteen seconds, then forces him to sit down in her kitchen for a cup of tea, he speaks.

“Where is John?”

She looks conflicted and sad, but answers.

“He’s at your...he’s at the cemetery, dear. He plans to move out today.”

“Out?”

“Yes, out of London. Off to some big job he got at a surgery.”

After a moment, the man looks from his hands on the table to her.

“Do you think he will be happier there? Will he want to know I’m back?” 

“Oh, dear-”

“I just-” the man struggles, trying to find the words, “I did this all so he would be safe and, eventually, happy. Has he moved on? Should I leave?”

The woman looks at him sadly, then covers one of his hands with hers. 

“He would probably want me to say he’s fine. But he really isn't. I think after the initial shock,” she eyes him, irritated, and he manages a small unrepentant smile, “he will be glad that you’re back.”

The two talk then, catch up with everything that the man has missed in the past year, and he recounts to her the truth of why he left.

“It had to be done. Moriarty was gone but the web remained. The only way to ensure the safety of those I hold close was to disappear, take down the web myself.”

The woman only nods, troubled but accepting.

Suddenly, there is a noise at the door, it is unlocked, and the blond man steps in. His back is to the pair in the kitchen. 

“I suppose I’ll be off then, Mrs. Hudson,” he says, and turns. The dark-haired man stands, and his hands are out in a defensive gesture. 

“John,” he says softly, and the other man looks to the woman. She nods, as if to confirm that this is real, that he is real. 

He then proceeds to rush up and land a solid punch to the dark-haired man’s jaw. 

Reeling back, the man holds up a hand again and attempts to speak, but the shorter man rushes up again, this time to wrap his arms around the taller man. 

“Sherlock,” he gasps, “bloody hell, Sherlock what the hell were you thinking?”

It’s not clear whose legs give out first, but somehow they end up on the kitchen floor, the woman having left to give them privacy after she saw that a knock-down-drag-out fight wasn’t about to occur in her kitchen. They wrap around each other, holding each other in place.

There would be a time for words. There would even be a time for confessions. There would be time for new cases and first kisses and arguments that they would have hundreds of times. There would be time for quiet days and chaotic nights. But for now, it is time for them to heal.

They are not perfect. Neither is even close to being completely whole. But together, the detective and his blogger cry on the kitchen floor. 

And for the moment, it is as close to perfect as either of them want it to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and criticisms are always appreciated! Thank you for reading!


End file.
